GRINGA (98 page)

             
Today, I’m homesick for
Mexico
so I get into
Madison
’s Honda and drive to a street corner. I watch Mexican men, illegals at that, offering themselves as casual labour. I sit in the car and listen to their accents, their cursing and I alternate between smiling ruefully and weeping.   

It’s two weeks since I returned to LA. As instructed by Madison and Kelly, I’m getting off my ass and starting to live again.

             
Things are going to change. Today.

             
I’m going to block out
Mexico
.

             
I will avoid
Troy
; he reminds me too much of Diago.

             
I’m going to stop crying.

             
I’m going to exercise till my body shuts down with fatigue.

             
I’m going to take up yoga to clear my fucked up mind.

             
My first challenge - get through
one
day without crying. If I manage to do that; then only will I  join Madison and Kelly at a club tonight and get plastered.

             
7AM. I’m sans hangover. Did not party with Madison and Kelly last night ’cause. I failed my challenge - I cried yesterday. Still, there’s today. In my bid to heal and be whole again, I’m of to the hairdresser. Going to colour and layer my hair. Maybe a change of hairstyle will help. I’ll try anything.

             
I choose ash blonde and a spiky layered cut. After two hours in the salon, I look in the mirror and smile. I look great. Vibrant, alive and sexy. Like one of Hugh’s Playboy Bunnies. 

             
Now for that scary word again – dating. Yes, I’m on the market again.

             
With the help of Kelly and Madison, I date fourteen guys in two weeks. I would have dated more if I could cram more dates into my days and nights. My new-found vivaciousness, coupled with my dry, yet entertaining sense of humour, ensures a steady stream of second dates, which I refuse. I am a
wow
and I love every minute of it. I look at the mirror and smile. ‘It didn’t take you long, Payton. You’re amazing. Such strength, such determination, such resolve, such …’

             
With an anguished groan I mess up my hair.

             
I hate it. Everything! I just
hate
.

             
Every time I go out on a date, I can’t wait to get back to my apartment. I’m constantly glancing at my wrist watch. These guys are so fucking immature and sheltered. All they want to do is score. I keep comparing them to my Diago. When I’m with them, my emotions range between impatience and disdain and I never give any one of them a chance at anything. I’m cocky and rude, hoping that they will tell me to piss off, but guess what? They love that. They call it ‘spunky’ and gear up to conquer. Fucking weirdos!

             
As for this new look of mine – aaaggghh! With my dark eye-liner, heavy mascara and intense fuchsia lips - you can be forgiven for assuming my make-up artist’s day job is an embalmer at a funeral parlour. And this blonde mane of mine – I look like a Cocker Spaniel with too many highlights.

             
I want to just curl up and die.
             
My head snaps to look at the ceiling. No beams.

             
I look at my wrists. The thought of coming face-to-face with my own blood makes me cringe.
             
Our apartment is on the fourth floor. I look outside my window and stare at the ground below.
             
Quickly I drag my cowardly head inside.

             
Off with the fuschia lipstick. I tear off my clothes and crawl into bed. Sleep comes easily. Lucky me.

I’ve just escaped another disastrous date and I’m heading for a bar. Madison and Kelly have company at the apartment and right now, I don’t feel like talking to any of their fuckwit friends who constantly probe me about my life in
Mexico
.

             
‘Payton, is it true you had weed growing like ground cover in your backyard?’

             
‘Yeah.’

             
‘Were you high
all
the time?’

             
‘Duh! What d’ya think?’

             
‘Did you bring any over?’

             
‘Yes. No. Yes. No. Maybe.’

             
‘Bet you got a plant growing somewhere here?’

             
‘Yes. No. Yes. No. Maybe.’

             
Tell the same lies over and over again and it gets plain fucking boring.

             
I enter a local watering hole and slide into a booth. Luckily, the place is quiet tonight.

             
‘Vodka, Red Bull,’ I say to the double-D implants in my face. The owner of the double-D implants nods and takes her silicon with her.

             
A drunk immediately staggers up to me. ‘Want some company, booriful?’

             
‘Fuck off!’

             
‘C’mon. You look kinda lonely, huh?’

             
‘I said, “Fuck off!”’

             
‘Fucking lesbian!’ he mutters as he wobbles away. 
             

             
Going out every night is exhausting and I’m feeling frayed. I don’t even feel like drinking anymore but I order a drink so I can stay in the bar. The reason I chose this bar is because they have a smokers section. Yes, I’m smoking a pack a day. Filthy habit, it’ll kill me, I know and fuck, how I wish it would.

             
The smell of cigarette always reminds me of Diago. I close my eyes, picture his smiling face, the way his eyes crinkles, the way he cocks his head to one side when he looks at me, the way he throws back his head and guffaws when I tell a lame joke and tears spring to my aching eyes.
             
Surreptitiously, I wipe them away.

             
‘Still smoking, I see.’

             
Familiar voice. I open my eyes and look into Depp’s face. He’s looking, as usual, scrubbed and neat but strangely casual in attire. Brown leather jacket and faded jeans. Very un-FBI. Actually, I’ve never seen him in anything
but
formal clothes.

             
I successful shook him off for about three weeks but now he’s here. I clear the frog in my throat. ‘You stalking me?’

             
‘Maybe. I wanna talk to you.’

             
‘About what? I’m all talked out, Depp. I’m done.’ I stub out my cigarette, down my vodka, slam my glass on the table and storm out the bar.

             
‘Payton wait!’ He grabs my arm.

             
‘Why? What does the FBI want this time, Depp? My left lung? My cuticles? I have
nothing
left to give. I’ve lost all that is precious. My
safe
is empty, Depp.’  

             
‘I get that you’re avoiding
my
calls, but
Troy
’s?’

             
I exhale loudly. I feel like puking. I might be allergic to alcohol after all. Please don’t let me be allergic to alcohol. It’s such a great crutch.

  
             
‘Payton, the FBI is another issue.
I
wanna to make my peace with you.’

             
‘Ah, so that’s it. You come in peace.’

             
‘What’ll it take, Payton? How do I
right
the wrong?’

  
             
‘So you want me to absolve you so you sleep through the night, right? Like, I must say, “Depp if you say seven hail Mary’s and sacrifice a goat ...”’

  
             
‘No!’

  
             
‘Then stay the fuck away, Mr FBI. I just wanna block out
Mexico
and Diago and I just close that chapter of my life and you …you are a …a huge paragraph in it. A raw, unedited paragraph. You kinda spoil a good chapter.’

             
He drops my arm, a look of disappointment flitting across his face.

             
I start to walk away.  

             
‘It’s the grieving process,’ he says, running after me. ‘You’re stuck in the anger phase.’

             
‘Gee, you’re smart for an FBI agent, Special Agent
User
.’

             
He grabs my arm and drags me into a side street with such force; I feel a tinge of panic.

             
‘What the fuck? Lemme alone! I listened to you guys, followed orders and got the only man who ever really cared about me killed. Know what it’s like? I’ll tell you: I can’t fall asleep at night. Then, when I do, I awake at 4 AM. Can’t sleep again. I spend hours thinking about how I sold my soul for fuck all. How I betrayed the man I loved. He was alive when … when they dragged me off him. I wasn’t able to be with him when his soul … he died
alone
, Depp.’ I hang my head as the pain surges through me. ‘No one should die alone. Especially … not if you’re loved by so many people. ’

             
‘I know, I know and I agree, but Payton, if I was there, I wouldn’t have let it happen. I spent umpteen hours listening to him, his voice … and he grew on me too. I
got
him.’

             
‘Well, too late Depp, cos he’s dead, and now that I have time to think, I realise that morally, you’re piss-poor Depp.’

             
He swallows hard as he stares at me. ‘Morally …’ His eyes turn glassy. ‘I … I …’ Is he going to cry? Wouldn’t that be something – FBI agent bawling in the street because of a drug lord’s death?

             
But seeing him so unhinged leaves me feeling a little bad. A lot bad. After all, he did give Diago a break.

             
I’m flirting with the idea of apologising when he rises into the air and dances before my eyes. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep but he’s spinning like a top.